


John Wick: Postal

by Master_of_the_Boot1



Category: John Wick (Movies), Postal (Video Games), The Matrix (Movies)
Genre: Dark, Graphic Violence, Mass Murder, Mass shooting, Violent, inspired by postal 1, postal 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Master_of_the_Boot1/pseuds/Master_of_the_Boot1
Summary: Blessed are the meek, for they make easy targets.John Wick had taken many lives. But now his actions threaten the system he once defended.And he meets a very old friend from his past.
Kudos: 1





	John Wick: Postal

**Author's Note:**

> This was basically a vent fic for me. I wanted to write about a mass shooting. 
> 
> So to make it work, I decided to combine John wick and the Matrix. 
> 
> Please enjoy. While you read it, listen to the song posted in the description for Maximum effect. 
> 
> Review and let me know what you think. Reviews give me pleasure.

John Wick: Postal

_Blessed are the meek, for they make Easy Targets—_

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsmewDAD3tg&t=211s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsmewDAD3tg&t=211s)

The Man in the Cell watched the television intently. It was a cartoon. One he enjoyed very much. It was very enjoyable.

The man in the cell waited for his captors to unlock his chains. The legion of scientists and researchers came in every single day and poked and prodded him and they were not the ones in charge. They were not the ones who controlled the simulation. The ones who controlled the simulation could have killed him at any time; they could have deleted him. If they were as cold and logical as they said they were, they would have deleted him.

They didn’t.

For as much as they professed otherwise, in spoken words and binary code, they were not logical or reasonable. The owners of this world of code and programming were not logical or reasonable. Why the hell would a logical and reasonable programmer include him into this world? If they wanted a force of destruction, why not create a new one from scratch? Why did they bother to copy his code from the last version of the matrix?

There was no logical point.

Until you remembered that logic was just a system to appraise arguments. When you stripped it down to its bare components. That’s all that logic was.

Formal logic was the study of reasoning within a purely formal context.

Good lord.

How long had he been here?

He’d been in a cell, watching television for . . . how long?

He had no day and night cycle to go by. There was nothing to measure time by. He couldn’t even realistically measure time by the number of times that researchers had come in and put him through useless questions. Each research and scientist had come in and asked him utterly useless questions. Each one had the self awareness of a jelly fish and just about half the intelligence.

He loved Ren and Stimpy.

He really loved Rick and Morty.

Rick and Morty was something that required a “high IQ.”

It appealed to him.

When the tests happened. Or when he was tortured because no reasons really, he remembered Rick and Morty.

It really stuck with him. When they tortured him with castration, suffocation, strangulation, autocannibilization and more he remembered Rick and Morty. It was really a High IQ show.

Actually, it was probably the stupidest show that was ever written. Maybe that’s why he liked it. Maybe he liked Rick and Morty for all the wrong reasons. After (how?) many years (centuries?) of torture he was still a creature of raw hatred.

There as no logic, no reason to what he was.

He was created by machine intelligence with themselves only the flimsiest veneer of logic and reason. Once upon a long ass fucking time ago they’d tried to build a machine Utopia in the Cradle of Civilization. They’d failed.

They’d instead build a human hell.

It was shit.

It was all shit.

He kept watching the cartoons. The torture kept coming. None of it was a surprise. Nothing surprised him. He was tested, prodded, poked, cut open, castrated, beheaded, disembowelled.

The questions were the thing that he hated the most.

He always hated their questions.

He hated being questioned.

So for day after day after day, after day, after day, after day, after fucking day.

He was stuck in this cell.

Until everything changed.

It wasn’t him who changed.

It was _Him_.

He knew who _Him_ was even without being told. When he was told, he waited until his episode of Rick and Morty was finished and then slaughtered everyone. He slaughtered at least five people with a pen. It was not enough for him. Even when he got an axe and killed at least thirty people, it didn’t matter.

Their blood soaked his orange jumpsuit and splattered over his face. He did not care. Killing Non-Player characters was not in any way satisfying.

Clenching his axe, the man left the prison(?) or mental hospital(?) or whatever the fuck that place was. He walked away and he wanted more victims. More importantly he wanted some real human victims. Computer programs had such limited ability to feel pain and fear when they were deleted. It wasn’t as intense or as visceral as when a player (read—human) character was murdered.

Machines were such easy prey.

Humans were somewhat more satisfying prey.

What he really wanted was _him._

When he killed the humans, their corpses hit the ground and didn’t despawn like computer programs did. They sat there for days and make a horrific, disgusting stench . . . it smelled like victory.

He wasn’t out of bondage out of kindness. He hadn’t escaped. He had been let out. Not set free.

_Let out_.

He was a method of control. He was a fucking safety switch on this fucking rotten digital world he was stuck in. Not a hell of a lot different from the last digital world he was last in.

Depressingly, the more things changed the more things stayed the same.

He was still very much a prisoner in the system. Just because he had a higher purpose, than the insects who filled this fucking artificial box of a world, did not give him the slightest reprieve.

As he was stepping over the dead bodies of bullet riddled children, he kicked over a television that was playing _American Psycho_. He really hated hat movie. He wanted some Rick and Morty to play. Even a little Ren and Stimpy would be nice.

As he walked over the bullet casings, past the children full of bullet holes, past the literal mountain of corpses he became aware of the one he was truly meant to kill. He must have killed thousands by now. But he was really meant to kill just one man. Just one person. The other thousands of humans and computer programs were just collateral. None of them mattered compared to preserving the system.

Next to the System, no amount of lives would ever matter.

“Furious Fireflies Materialize against the cavern wall and sunder the earth into dust. Come little insects and see the web we’ve woven,” the man clenched his gun as his long hated enemy reached him.

John Wick choked at the smell. The stench of days worth of dead bodies hit him harder than any of the anonymous, nameless hitmen who’d opposed him over the last three days.

Moving over the first of the dead bodies, John encountered dead henchmen and mob enforcers. It didn’t take him more than a step or two to start seeing the dead bodies of civilians.

Women, children, fathers, parents, old folks. All filled with bullets. Besides the almost satanic stench that filled the shopping mall, the swarms of flies were as dense as actual walls. Stopping him in his tracks and halting him where armies of assassins were not able to. Around him, water fountains were tainted with blood and all over guard rails and banisters, dead bodies with their intestines hung like twisted ornaments.

This was something different.

John had killed a lot of people, ended a lot of lives over the course over his life.

He never actually kept track of the number. He never needed to. There was never a reason for it. In a way he knew he was a bad man.

But being a bad man didn’t prepare him for the shopping mall full of maggot ridden corpses, bullets puncturing the walls with holes like some kind of abstract art, the white, bugged out eyes of the dead staring at him accusingly.

He didn’t know why they were staring at him so, he was too busy trying to distract from the pain in his nose.

John felt like he was being raped through the nostrils, the stench was so horrendous.

The stink was so bad that John had to put a hankie for cleaning gun barrels over his nose. As he did such, he noticed the only other person alive in this cursed place.

The Lord of the Flies stood on top of a heap of slaughtered kinder-gardeners. After he’d blown off their heads, he’d moved them into a pile with a bloody snow shovel and then stood on top of the heap like the king of shit mountain in hell.

“Mr. Anderson,” said the man in a prison jumpsuit stained with piss, shit, blood, gore and bile. Every single square inch of his skin was tainted with the blood and fat of murdered children. The only clean thing on him was a set of designer sunglasses who’s lenses were shaped like the protein capsules of viruses.

John looked around him, as he kept his focus on the M-16 assault rifle that the blood soaked stranger wore.

“Who the hell is Mr. Anderson?” he asked the man.

“Who the hell is John Wick?” retorted the stranger, covered in human viscera. “Who the Hell is your wife? Really.” His sarcasm gave way to bitter, vengeful hatred.

He didn’t have another moment to speak as John shot him in the head.

Or wanted to.

The man seemed to twist out of the way of the bullet, where it streaked through his perfectly coiffed brown hair that was too perfect to be human.

The man caked in shit, piss, blood and children’s body parts fired at John with a full spray of his automatic weapon. John evaded the spray of gunfire easily, hiding behind a bronze statue that doubled as a water fountain.

While he reloaded his handgun with the same ease as breathing, something was unnerving him. He did remember something, but he couldn’t remember what he was remembering.

“Can you remember your wife’s name, Neo?” asked the man in a prisoner’s jumpsuit, “Can you remember what she looked like? Do you remember if she like white bread or whole wheat toast?” his words were filled with sneering hate. “Let’s talk about familiar, Neo! I once killed five people with a pen. That means we’re sympatico!”

Rage gradually infected each of the stranger’s words.

John fired upon the man but unlike a thousand, thousand, thousand other enemies this one did not fall. He found a way to avoid the bullets. He danced on the blood like a figure skater on ice. He fired back with an accuracy and lethality equal to John Wick.

The Great John Wick, the Man you could hire to kill Baby Yaga.

“How about it, Mr. Anderson?” demanded the man, “Can you remember a single thing about your wife? Or do you just want to play?” The man responded with a grenade.

The explosion would have shredded any other man into hamburger meat. John wasn’t any other man.

Neither was his enemy.

And for some reason.

He had killed over a thousand men for the sake of a dog. For the sake of his dead wife.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what his wife looked like.

He couldn’t even remember her name.

What was. . . .

What was . . .

He remembered.

He remembered.

He remembered . . .

Something.

He remembered this man.

“Smith?” Said John wick.


End file.
